


muscles better, nerves more

by annundriel



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6078429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They know each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	muscles better, nerves more

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime post-Kings Rising.
> 
> Title from e.e. cummings.

Damen swallows hard, his heart in his throat as he takes in the view before him, a king surveying his lands. Laurent’s skin is pale as marble, white and deceptively cool. With his eyes, Damen follows the line of his spine, the elegant shift of muscles in his back as he props himself up on his elbows to look at Damen over his shoulder, one golden eyebrow raised.

His gaze is steady for as dark as his eyes have gone.

“Well?”

Damen shoulders his ways between Laurent’s thighs, forcing them to fall open. He reaches for him, calloused hands smoothing over Laurent’s ass and the perfect curves of muscle there. They fit well in his palms, and Damen can’t help but squeeze a little, tips of his fingers digging in as he spreads him. Grip shifting, he runs the pad of his thumb over Laurent’s entrance, a tease and a promise. “Well what?”

A slight gust of breath between Laurent’s parted lips and a tightening in his long, finely shaped thighs; the only evidence of Laurent’s acute awareness, equal part need and nerves. To erase the latter and increase the former, that is Damen’s goal. That is ever Damen’s goal. They take each other to their beds—multiple, plural, always _theirs_ now, never only one or the other—and Damen’s pulse quickens with need, ever ready to show Laurent not how it could be, but how it is.

“Your teasing is not appreciated, and should be left to those of us with the talent for— _oh_.”

Damen’s tongue glides over him, one smooth movement that leaves Laurent’s skin wet, glistening in the light of the fire at their backs, the lamps hanging nearby. He looks up to see Laurent’s head drop between his shoulders, the muscles bunching there, and waits for Laurent’s head to lift, hair falling across his forehead like gold as he turns to look at him again. Then Damen leans in, hands firm, and licks at him with the tip of his tongue.

A hitching breath catches in Laurent’s throat.

Perhaps it is less nerves and more need after all.

He keeps the touch light, tracing and teasing Laurent with the tip of his tongue, determined to drive Laurent as mad as Laurent drives him.

Laurent’s fingers clench against the sheets, wrinkling them in his grip. His eyes remain locked with Damen’s, though, color high in his cheeks. His lips are pink and parted and damp, and they would tempt Damen—would? They do; he cannot lie—save for the fact that his goal lies elsewhere, nestled in the sweet curves of Laurent’s skin.

Laurent’s eyes are on him, and Damen knows now what lies behind that look, the wonder at Damen’s intent, his care. Laurent is not used to being handled like this; Damen wants him to see it. He wants Laurent to watch him as he presses his mouth to tender skin, to know that when Damen bends his head to this task he means it. Wants it with every fiber of his being. Laurent doesn’t look away, their gazes locked, and Damen licks at him again, once, before working the tip of his tongue inward.

Beneath his hands, Damen feels Laurent’s muscles flex. At the head of the bed, Laurent’s breath catches. His eyes as he watches are very blue, wide and hungry, and Damen is hit with the enormity of what he feels for this man he didn’t understand and hated, this man he now understands and loves. Who lets him press him to fresh sheets and take him apart with careful ministrations of his lips and teeth and tongue. Damen’s eyes dip closed, the feeling too much, and he works his tongue deeper, tastes nothing…hears nothing…feels nothing but Laurent.

There is only this, the two of them, his own cock trapped between his hips and the bedclothes. A sweet ache low in his belly. Laurent goes still beneath him, quiet above, before he squirms in Damen’s grip, his hips pushing backward, begging Damen for more without the need for words.

This is how it is between them.

Laurent makes a noise, needy and low, and Damen finds his eyes again.

Eyes caught, Damen pulls away with a curl of his tongue before turning to nuzzle at the perfect curve of Laurent’s buttock. He nips there, pressing a kiss to the mark he’s left pinking the skin before shifting his grip and thumbing Laurent’s hole again, smoothing over it with the pad of his thumb. The space between Laurent’s thighs widens, and Damen presses inward with the end of his thumb. Feels Laurent clinging around him. In Damen’s chest, his heart thuds, the feel of it tremoring through him. Against the sheet, his cock throbs with the memory of pushing into that tight heat, Laurent opening to him like a flower, letting him in. Begging for it by the time Damen was through.

Later, he’ll indulge. Later, he’ll give them both what they want, pushing in slow the way Laurent likes best, stopping every time Laurent tells him to go faster, to give him more.

For now, he leans in again, tongue replacing thumb as he pulls it out slowly.

Laurent’s head drops with a bitten off groan, eye contact broken. Damen pauses, is about to pull his tongue away when Laurent speaks. His voice is clear, the only evidence of Damen’s effect on him a tremulous quality in the vowels.

“If you stop,” he says, breaking off when Damen pushes his tongue forward. “If you stop, I’ll—” The rest is lost to a keening sound at the back of his throat, sheets shifting beneath his fists.

Damen grins, and nuzzles at Laurent’s damp entrance. “If I stop, what?”

Laurent groans, but his head remains lowered, his face hidden. It is the one disadvantage of this position, Damen has found. Or of any position that puts either of them on their stomach. He misses Laurent’s face, the expressions that flit across it before he can fasten them down. Likes it best when they are tangled in each other’s arms, face to face and eye to eye.

Hips hitch beneath him, pushing into his hands. The mark he left on the rise of Laurent’s buttock catches his eye, as does the slick caused by his own mouth between. Of course, he thinks, there are benefits to this position as well.

He breathes across Laurent’s opening, watches him shiver and shake, watches his muscles bunch between his shoulder blades.

“You were saying?” he asks, voice pitched low as one hand traverses the rise of Laurent’s ass to the small of his back, fingers spread against the heat pooled there. He will never cease to marvel at the man that is Laurent, the intricacies of his mind and body. Looking at him now laid out before him, feeling him alive beneath the spread of his fingers, Damen knows he is a lucky man. There is so much that could have gone wrong—so much that almost did—that their story could have ended in tragedy. He pets Laurent’s skin and is grateful it did not.

“Laurent.” He leans down, noses at the tender skin that leads down to where his testicles are nestled against the sheets. “Laurent,” he repeats. “You were saying?”

A gust of air, shaking. “Does it matter?”

Damen laughs, his hand moving back to spread Laurent open again. Laurent pushes into him. “Is there ever a time with you that it does not?”

“Damen,” he says, and Damen can hear all of the things Laurent isn’t saying, all of the thoughts he can’t put into words; not yet, anyway, the feelings too new, too big, too…everything when everything was thought abandoned long ago. “ _Please_.”

The word—one syllable breathed in need—cuts to the core of him. Were he standing, he would be reeling. Thankfully, he is not, and instead he presses his face to Laurent, drops kisses across his skin. “Anything,” he tells him. “Anything, anything,” meaning it down to the very fiber of him.

There’s a sound from Laurent; it takes Damen a moment to place it as a laugh, breathless and tumbling. “Anything,” Laurent repeats. “Anything, you say, and yet you still haven’t gotten back to the task at hand.”

Damen licks his lips and feels alight. “I’ve been remiss,” he says. He presses his mouth to Laurent’s opening once more. “Forgive me, my king.”

“Only once you’ve— _oh_.”

Laurent tenses against him for a moment, surprise and pleasure intermingling before he relaxes, opening before him. Damen savors the moment; it’s one that has come to be a favorite, those seconds when Laurent makes the choice to let him in. Palming Laurent’s ass, he closes his eyes and groans, tongue curling. An answering groan from Laurent has him pulling back until it’s only the tip of his tongue at work, and then he’s pushing forward again, fucking Laurent, loving Laurent. He can feel the change in Laurent as he presses close. Near the head of the bed, Laurent’s breaths come faster than before, louder. He’s not loose-limbed between Damen and the sheets, but he’s getting there.

“Damen,” he breathes. “Damen, I want—You need—”

Want, need; it is all the same, at a glance. Damen needs Laurent beside him. Damen _wants_ Laurent beside him. Perhaps not so similar then, the difference apparent in the existence of choice, and Damen chose this. He chooses this every day, with every breath. Presses his fingers and palms, his lips and tongue to Laurent and conveys this at every opportunity.

_You_ , he thinks. _I chose you in this lifetime. I would choose you in the next_.

He fucks Laurent with his tongue, eyes closed and fingers curled, palms pressed tight. He hums, and Laurent moans, his hands scrabbling at the sheet for something, and then Laurent’s hips are working against him, pulling away.

“Damen,” he says. “The oil.”

Damen blinks at him, feels like a man waking from one dream and into a better one. Among the sheets near Laurent’s thigh is a bottle, carefully stoppered. Planning ahead—of course he had—Laurent must have kept it near at hand. Ducking his head, Damen smiles, heart full.

“You’re usually more articulate about what you want,” he says at last, reaching for the bottle.

A sound, a mumble, and Laurent turning to eye him, hair dark at his temple, eyes gone hazy. “Fuck me,” he says. “I want you to stick your cock in me, and fuck me.”

The words crash through Damen like lightning, leaving him tingling, on fire. Desperate for all Laurent has to give, he pushes himself onto his knees and grabs the bottle, unstoppers it to slick his fingers. Pauses with his hand on his cock—feeling shudders through him—to watch the bunch and shift of Laurent’s back, to study the taper from broad shoulder to trim waist. Laurent moves against the bed clothes and his ass flexes, the shine from Damen’s ministrations visible.

Damen squeezes his cock with a groan.

It gets him a raised eyebrow. His voice is infuriatingly cool when he says, “You’re not going to come on me; you’re going to come in me. Like this.” He moves again, thighs widening. “Take me like this. Make me feel it.”

Damen swallows, unable to pull his eyes away from the shadowed space between Laurent’s legs he’d so recently been intimate with. “My king,” he says, head tilted. It comes out thick and heavy, and he can see Laurent swallow hard from here. “Whatever you like.”

“This is my pleasure,” Laurent says. “As it will be yours.” He bows his head, and the nape of his neck is slender and pale and Damen longs to fit his mouth against it, leave his mark there where Laurent’s hair begins to curl, where his Veretian collar will only just hide it.

“Laurent.” Damen reaches for him with a sigh, cock released from his grip as he touches oiled fingers to Laurent’s entrance. He traces the pad of his thumb there, and Laurent shivers against him, sensitive and ready, before Damen shifts his hand and presses a slick finger to him, feels him hot and clinging around him. Laurent huffs out a breath at the curl of one finger, then the addition of another. He breathes and tilts his hips and Damen can hardly stand the ecstatic joy that builds within him whenever Laurent asks and takes.

“ _Damen_ ,” he breathes. “Please.”

With a groan, Damen slides his fingers free. Finding the stoppered bottle again, he re-slicks his fingers, pausing only to stroke his cock before he’s moving closer between Laurent’s thighs. He makes room for himself with his knees, touches Laurent’s flank with a firm hand. Positions himself—the head of his cock hot against Laurent—and pushes in, feels Laurent open to him as Laurent’s breath catches. As both their breaths catch. Damen sinks deeper; careful, steady. If this is what Laurent has asked for, he wants Laurent to feel it, that intense focus turned on the places they connect.

When he is seated fully, Damen pauses, holding himself there for the span of seconds, minutes, he’s hardly sure. He presses his hips forward, Laurent tight against him, and drapes himself over Laurent’s back to bury his face in the curling tangle of his sweat-damp hair. He breathes deep, smells nothing but Laurent, hears nothing but Laurent’s pants, and finds the spot he wanted to mark earlier. Fits his lips and teeth to it. Sucks as Laurent jerks up and back into him. “Laurent,” he moans, nosing at the shell of his ear. “Let me.”

And he does. Turning his head, he lets Damen kiss and nip and suck at his neck. Lets him take and give as Laurent takes and gives, the two of them caught in an endless circle of heat and pleasure. Damen keeps the movements of his hips shallow, slow, trying to draw this out, loving the way Laurent falls apart beneath him, undone by Damen’s care until he’s breathing Damen’s name, Veretian nonsense falling from his tongue as he urges Damen on.

“I want to feel you,” he manages. “ _Damen_. I want to feel you inside me.”

Damen groans, and presses his teeth to the curve of Laurent’s shoulder. “Must be doing something wrong if you can’t already.”

“Don’t.” The word is bitten off to make way for a gasp as Damen drives home a little harder. “Don’t be a fool. You know what I want.”

“I want you to say it.”

“Spill inside me,” he says, voice thick. “Let me feel you come.”

It is an order Damen will not argue. He tucks his face against Laurent’s, feels surrounded by him. They have done this many times, and each time Damen feels as though the world is shattering around him, waiting for the two of them to remake it after. He finds Laurent’s hand against the bedclothes, tangles their fingers together. Thrusts once, twice, again, and then he’s coming, Laurent’s name on his lips, words in Akielon tumbling after.

A moment’s breath, and Laurent shifts against him, a muffled groan and fingers tight around his own.

“Wait,” Damen says. “I’ve got you.” And then he’s pulling out, flipping Laurent over. Laurent clings to him, arms around Damen’s shoulders, fingers digging in. He clings, mouth against Damen’s skin, and comes with Damen’s hand on his cock, his mouth opening hungrily beneath Damen’s. The sound he makes is sweet; Damen would swallow him whole.

When Damen can think again, he rolls to the side, accepting the kiss Laurent drops on his cheek. He watches as Laurent rises, body moving smoothly, limbs working perfectly together save for the slight tremble that happens when he stands. Damen smirks, then smirks harder when Laurent catches him at it.

“You are quite proud of yourself, I see,” Laurent says, stepping into the adjoining room. He is gone for a moment, and Damen knows he is cleaning up, fastidious as ever. With a laugh, Damen rolls onto his back and stretches, toes curling.

“I see no reason not to be,” he calls, pushing sweaty curls back from his forehead. “You said _please_.”

A sound from the doorway. Damen raises his head to find Laurent standing there, cloth in hand. His skin is still flushed, pale and pink and gold. Even from here, Damen thinks he can make out the hint of his own mouth just climbing the rise of his shoulder. Laurent is staring, eyes lingering on the open sprawl of Damen’s legs, the width of his chest. Damen grins, flexing a little as he fit his hands behind his head, and shifts his hips.

Color suffuses Laurent’s skin once more.

He crosses the distance between them, body feline and graceful, leg curling beneath him as he sits beside Damen on the bed. Dropping the cloth in Damen’s lap, Laurent says, with a sniff, “I may have.”

“May have?” Damen gawks, teasing. “Twice, at least.”

Damen gets a non-committal _hmm_ at that, but the corner of Laurent’s mouth lifts and there’s a light in his eyes Damen has become increasingly familiar with. A light that makes his heart beat fast with anticipation. He grins and swears and reaches for Laurent, pulling him down to him. “You cannot fool me,” he says. “I know you.”

Laurent blinks at him. Inches away, his eyes are as blue and deep as the sea Damen grew up with. He used to think they were just as unknowable; how mistaken he was. Laurent looks at him, and Damen can see the boy he was, the man he is. He is not the man Damen thought he was, neither of them are.

“You do,” Laurent says, face gone soft as he leans close to fit their mouths together. “And I you.”


End file.
